


Meow Mix

by dark_roast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-05
Updated: 2009-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_roast/pseuds/dark_roast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, set midway through Season 4. SPOILERS for that season.<br/>Rated R (for one swear word).<br/>Bela escapes the Hellhounds. Not surprisingly... that's only where the trouble <i>begins</i> for the Winchester brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meow Mix

Sam was on his way back to the Fridley Budget Motel with a venti latte in each hand, when the Siamese cat sidled out of the tall weeds at the edge of the parking lot. Scruffy, skinny and filthy. Obviously a stray, even though it wore a brown leather collar.

The cat watched Sam through the underbrush, and then made up its mind. It followed Sam to the door of the motel room.

"You can't come in," Sam told it.

The Siamese looked up at him with big blue eyes. The tip of its tail quivered hopefully.

"No. Forget it."

Sam turned sideways to thump the door with his elbow, since his hands were full. Before he could, Dean opened the door, holding a half-eaten burrito wrapped in tinfoil. The smells of carnitas, cheese and salsa verde rose steaming into the morning air.

"Who're you talking to?" Dean asked with his mouth full.

Sam looked down. The cat was no longer under his feet. It was now halfway across the parking lot, staring at Dean, its eyes wide and black.

Dean went after it. "Hey, kitty-kitty!" He crouched, stretching out his free hand and wiggling his fingers. "C'mere. Come on."

"Dean, leave it alone." Sam set both of the lattes on the table under the window. "It's got fleas. Or rabies."

Ignoring Sam, Dean frog-walked closer to the Siamese, making a kiss-kiss noise. Sam expected the cat to bolt, but it held its ground, ears back and legs stiff.

"Nneeee-auu?" it said.

"Yeah, I know exactly how you feel." Dean unwrapped his burrito from the foil and the tortilla, laying it on the ground.

The Siamese edged closer, then tore hungrily into the burrito. Sam smiled at his brother's back. The way Dean gave of himself -- so quickly, and with so little thought -- that always seemed to be what bit him in the ass. Sam loved him for it anyway.

Dean's fingers brushed the cat's back; he and the cat jumped apart like they'd shocked each other. Dean stood up fast, staggered, and caught himself. The cat backed away, tail swinging as it struggled to get its balance.

"Wau?" The cat shook its head. "Ngau..."

"Dean?"

His brother held up a hand. "I'm fine."

Sam's brows drew together. Dean headed unsteadily toward the motel room. He didn't look fine. He looked drunk, or stunned, or... Sam didn't know what. He reached under his jacket and touched the pistol tucked in the waistband of his jeans.

The Siamese raced across the parking lot. Before Sam could close the door, a brown and buff blur whipped into the room, jinking under Dean's feet. Dean stumbled over the cat, falling against the table. The lattes jiggled, but didn't topple over.

"Bloody hell!" Dean snarled. In a British accent.

Sam pulled his gun, pressing it to the back of his brother's head. "Who are you?"

Dean looked over his shoulder at Sam, and smirked. Sam recognized that smirk. He would've known it anywhere, though he'd never expected to see it again.

"Put it back in your pants, Sam," Bela said. "We both know you won't shoot me."

"Where's Dean?" Sam said between his teeth.

The cat sprang onto the nearer bed. The conclusion was inescapable.

Bela laughed. "Kill this body, and your brother is trapped. Until the Hellhounds catch up with him."

Sam lowered the pistol. Bela was right. He wouldn't shoot her. Not in Dean's body.

"My brother's not going back to Hell."

Bela swung around, her smile gone.

"If any Hellhounds are sniffing around, they're only looking for you."

"Raa-au-yrow," agreed the Siamese.

Sam knew he was only imagining that it sounded exactly like _Goddamn right_. The cat hopped down from the bed, walked past Sam, and out the still-open door of the motel room.

Sam said, "You didn't want Dean's body at all, did you? You wanted mine."

Bela's tongue poked out and touched her lower lip. Dean's lip. Incredibly disturbing. "Oh, Sam... you do have such a lovely… large body…" She laid both hands on his chest, spreading her fingers. "So full of demon blood. Even Lilith can't touch you."

Sam slapped her hands away, backing out of range.

"Maybe later," she cooed. "Your bits... Dean's bits... mmm. Naughty."

"I was supposed to pet the cat, wasn't I? Why did you let Dean touch you?"

"I haven't eaten in days."

"Not a very good hunter, are you?"

Bela shrugged. "I don't like getting my hands dirty. Unlike you and your brother."

Sam said. "So, what did you do? Pick up some stray in an alley?"

"Spike is my cat. I bought him from a breeder when he was a kitten." Bela tugged the fly of her jeans. Adjusting herself.

"Dude!" Sam half-turned away. "Don't. Do that."

"I'm not used to Dean's equipment."

"And you're not going get used to it."

Outside, Dean flung himself across the parking lot and leaped onto the hood of the Impala, startling a squirrel sitting on the car's roof. Chittering angrily, the squirrel fled and Dean gave chase, springing from the roof to the ground again, metaphorically flipping off both gravity and physics.

Bela leaned against the doorjamb, hooked the collar of Dean's tee shirt with her index finger, and checked out the view.

"You are so very lucky Dean didn't see that," Sam said.

Reaching under Dean's tee shirt with both hands, Bela ran her fingers over his stomach. "Your brother has gorgeous skin. Does he moisturize? How metrosexual."

Sam shoved the gun against her upper arm. "Switch Dean back, or I _will_ shoot you. Same place you shot me."

"It doesn't work that way, my sweet Sammy. The spell is permanent."

"I don't believe you."

Dean came tearing back into the room, tail bristling and ears pinned flat against his head. Startled, Sam swung the pistol around, but the parking lot was empty.

Bela slammed the door shut, and pressed her back against it. Her face -- Dean's face -- was bloodless with fear. "Oh, God. Sam... please..."

Sam didn't have to ask her what she meant. He already knew. The Hellhounds had found her.

"They never stop chasing me." Bela backed away from the door until she bumped into the bed. "No matter where I run, they always find me. Please, Sam. You have to help me."

"Actually, no," Sam said. "I don't."

"I realize we didn't part on the best of terms."

"You think?"

"I know I should have come to you and Dean for help. I know that now. We could've helped each other, and none of this --"

"How much money did you get for the Colt, Bela? Was it worth it? Did you even have time to spend it?"

"I'm sorry. So sorry, Sam. Really, truly I am. I've had months and months to think about how badly I -- ouch! Ow!" She shook her leg. Dean clung to her, forepaws clamped around her shin, claws dug in deep through her jeans. "Get off! Tell him to get off me!"

"Come on, Bela." Sam folded his arms over his chest. "Everybody knows cats don't follow orders."

Bela reached down to peel Dean off her leg, and Dean hissed, baring his fangs.

"Bad kitty," said Sam.

The standoff ended abruptly when both Bela and Dean snapped their attention to the door. The morning darkened, the air grew heavy, and the noises from outside -- rushing traffic, singing birds -- died away. Dean dropped from Bela's leg and faced the door, crouched low. Ready for a fight.

"No more time for recriminations." Bela's voice was low and swift. She pressed her hand to her chest. "This is the body those monsters will tear apart. Your brother's body. Even if you do switch us back, Dean won't survive."

Sam couldn't go through that a second time. Not even knowing it was Bela Talbott's soul inside Dean's body. He couldn't watch Dean be ripped and bitten to death by invisible talons and teeth. Not again.

"I'm begging you, Sam," Bela said. "Help me."

Sam met the unblinking blue gaze of the Siamese. His brother couldn't talk, but he didn't need to. They understood one another.

"We'll make a run for it," Sam told Bela.

Grabbing both the rucksacks from where they lay on the floor under the window, he chucked Dean's at Bela. She caught it reflexively, hugging it against her chest like a big teddy bear.

"You're mad!"

"Got a better plan? I'm all ears." He handed over the other rucksack.

"Why do I have to carry all your baggage?"

"You want our help or not?"

Bela stuck out her lower lip, but said nothing. Sam opened the door. The Hellhounds -- three of them -- were there, yet not there. Easier to see in the corner of his eyes. Dark, hunched shapes, deep-set red eyes burning fiercely. Sam was so much stronger now than he'd been the last time. He could take them. He knew he could. He had to.

He stepped out of the motel room, and lifted his hand. Focused. Gathered the darkness inside of him, sensed the darkness outside gathering also. The Hellhounds grew more substantial. Growling, they slunk back. Sam edged toward the Impala, not breaking eye contact with them. His other hand poked into the pocket of his jeans, hunting for the car keys.

His pocket was empty. Dean had the keys. _Bela_ had the car keys. She'd been groping and fondling Dean's body enough; she must have felt the keys in his pocket. She realized it at the same time. Dropping the rucksacks, she sprinted across the parking lot. Two of the Hellhounds bounded after her. The third one lunged at Sam. Except it wasn't Sam the Hellhound wanted. It was Dean. The Hellhound uttered a deep and rolling ROUWF! Dean snarled and stood his ground.

Bela reached the Impala, fumbled with the keys, and yanked the door open. Sam scooped up Dean. He threw the cat like a shot put, aiming at Bela. Dean hurtled through the air, legs outstretched, sailing over the heads of the startled Hellhounds, trailing a loud "Raaaooouw!"

It didn't sound like a scream of surprise and fear. It sounded like death from above. It sounded like Ride of the Valkyries should've been playing in the background. Dean landed on Bela's back, hind feet kicking, claws ripping; Bela shrieked, slapping at the cat, and both of them tumbled into the car.

Ignoring the red tide of pain rising in his head, Sam braced himself for one last push. Again, he lifted his hand toward the Hellhounds, and again they cringed away. Sam ran for the car, shoving Bela over as he scrambled in and slammed the door. The Impala rocked as a Hellhound thumped against it, claws scrabbling and screeching, muzzle printing a jagged smear of slobber across the side window.

Dean jumped into the back seat. "Yaau!"

That was either a challenge, or a protest about the scratches on the paint job. Possibly both.

"Keys!" Sam demanded.

Bela threw them at him. Her face and neck were covered in scratches, and Sam made a mental note to dump several gallons of hydrogen peroxide over his brother, if they made it out of this alive.

For once, Dean's temperamental car -- the car that was never temperamental when _Dean_ was behind the wheel -- for once, the Impala's engine roared to life the very first time Sam twisted the key in the ignition. He peeled out of the motel parking lot. Black flecks swirled in his vision. A rain of ash, a cloud of angry flies. There was a crushing pressure inside his head, a giant fist squeezing his brain like a nectarine. He focused on not passing out.

"Nnam?" came from the back seat.

Sam realized he was gripping the steering wheel tight enough to whiten his knuckles, muttering a steady stream of "Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap..." under his breath. He made himself stop.

"I'm okay." He scrubbed blood off his upper lip with the sleeve of his jacket. "I'm all right, Dean."

"Mau rrrnnaaaa."

"Exactly what I was thinking."

Bela uttered a soft, scornful laugh. Her face was pale and taut, the red scratches down her cheek standing out starkly. "Do you seriously expect me to believe you understand what he's saying?"

"I don't give a shit what you believe, Bela."

"And? What wisdom does Dean Winchester have to share with us?"

"The safest place for us is sanctified ground. There's a cemetery about three miles up Route Nine."

"A temporary solution at best."

She turned away, watching the wing mirror on her side. When Sam glanced in the rear-view, he saw only a rusty red panel truck following them, but Dean was up on his hind legs, ears pricked, staring out the back window. The Hellhounds were still in pursuit. No doubt about it.

A few minutes later, Sam drove the Impala through the high iron gates of Morningside Cemetery, pulled over at the side of the white-graveled drive, and shut off the engine. The cemetery was small and well kept. Grass mowed, fresh flowers on the graves. A white clapboard church stood at the top of a gentle rise. The Impala was the only car around. The air in the churchyard smelled of fresh-cut grass and faintly of gasoline. Sunlight sifted through the trees in bright dapples. Already, Sam's headache was fading.

He got out of the car and looked back down the drive. Sure enough, there they were. They appeared first as three dark shimmers, then as huge ugly dogs. The hounds paced back and forth outside the gates, tongues lolling. Every so often, one of them sniffed the ground.

Dean leapt onto the driver's seat, lifting his triangular face to Sam. "Nnaarrrr."

"Yeah, just our luck," Sam said.

"What?" Bela said. "What's going on?"

Sam popped the trunk. They had shotguns and rock salt. An ass-ton of rock salt. Dean must've stocked up. Everything else was back in the motel parking lot: grimoires, silver bullets, holy water. Sam's laptop. He slammed the trunk shut.

Bela leaned out of the passenger-side window. "What, Sam?"

"Since you couldn't do the one job I gave you," Sam told her, "we're screwed. That's what. So, thanks for that, Bela. Thanks a bunch."

"Mreee," Dean said.

Sam sighed. The conclusion was unavoidable. No other choice. They -- or rather _Sam_ \-- would have to call Bobby.

Most of his life, Sam Winchester had felt far more mature than his chronological age. For the last few years, he'd rolled out of bed each morning feeling like he'd lived three or four hundred years already. It had been a long, long time since somebody made him feel about eleven.

The silence on the other end of his cell phone went on so long that Sam was beginning to think -- beginning to hope, actually -- that his phone had dropped the call. He pulled the phone away from his ear. Three bars.

"Bobby?"

"I’m still trying to work out," Bobby said, "exactly how you and your brother managed to get yourselves into this particular situation."

"It’s not our fault," Sam said without thinking. He winced.

There was another long silence. Funny how Sam's own father never had the same effect on Sam that Bobby did. Maybe because John Winchester had shouted and cursed, whereas Bobby somehow managed to stare in stony disapproval, even over the phone.

"It’s not like Dean could’ve carried any of our gear," Sam pointed out, glancing down at his brother.

He hadn’t thought it was possible for a cat to roll its eyes.

"Mnau," Dean added.

"Screw you."

"Excuse me?" Bobby growled.

"No, not you. I’m talking to Dean."

"Dean who's still a cat, right?"

The Siamese hopped down from the driver's seat, and went trotting off across the gravel drive.

"I almost didn't make it to the car," Sam called after his brother. "And if it hadn’t been for me..."

"Sam," Bobby said.

Dean disappeared into the trees. For a moment, the dark tip of his tail waved above the grass, and then it too was gone. Sam sighed.

"Sioux Falls is only a couple hours south of Fridley," Bobby continued. "Sit tight. And _try_ to stay out of trouble."

"Okay. Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby hung up without saying goodbye. Sam snapped his phone closed. The passenger-side door clunked, and when Sam turned around, Bela was striding away through the gravestones.

"Hey!" He hurried around the front of the Impala, and caught her by the arm. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Where the hell do you think I can go?" Bela snapped back, shaking off his grip. "Not very far. I need to take a slash, is all."

Sam gave her a blank look.

"I need to relieve myself."

"No. Absolutely not."

"Your brother’s bladder is extremely full."

"Too bad." There would be no more peeking, fiddling, groping or fondling. Sam already had too many scarring mental images for one morning. "You stay where I can see you. And you keep your hands to yourself."

With a gusty sigh, Bela stomped back to the car. She flopped down in the grass, leaning against the Impala's rear tire.

Sam rummaged in the back to see if he’d left anything interesting or useful in the car. Under the passenger seat, his fingers found a paperback book. He pulled out the almost-new copy of _Inside Night_ he’d bought half a year ago, before Dean's contract had come due. Not surprising that he'd forgotten all about it. He sat down next to the car's front tire, and opened the book.

"I’ve read that," Bela said. "It was quite good. Shame about Patrick dying at the end."

Sam slapped the book shut, and dropped it in the grass. "Maybe you’d be more comfortable in the trunk."

"No thank you," she replied with an infuriating smile.

Dean emerged from the trees carrying a dead chipmunk in his mouth. He laid the small corpse beside Sam's sneaker, and Sam realized he'd been mistaken: it was only half a chipmunk. His stomach lurched. All the same, he recognized a peace offering when he saw one.

"Thanks," he said. "I’m not hungry, though. You go ahead."

Dean did.

Bela covered her face with both hands. "Oh God, that’s revolting."

"No wonder you were hungry," Sam said.

Bela pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped both arms around her legs, and turned her face away. Outside the cemetery gates, the Hellhounds had given up pacing and sniffing. All three lay sprawled in the sun.

Dean finished his lunch, and sprang onto the Impala's hood. Sam watched his brother washing the blood off his chops and whiskers, and then Dean draped himself halfway off the car, his head and one paw hanging down next to Sam.

"Bobby can get here in a couple hours." Sam pitched his voice low. Not like it mattered. Bela probably heard him anyway. "But, if we can’t fix this..."

"Nnnaamm."

"Yeah, yeah. I know."

Dean yawned. His entire head disappeared behind a mouthful of teeth. Sam reached up to scratch his brother's ears.

***

Bela planned and prepared for nearly three years, as discreetly as she could, taking extraordinary pains to make it appear as if she'd run out of options, and she was terrified. Not difficult, since she _was_ terrified. She might have been out of options before she'd even begun.

No one hindered her efforts. Lilith enjoyed watching her victims struggle and squirm; and Bela gambled on the demon's arrogance. Bela wasn't sure if the spell would even work. She wasn't working it exactly as it was meant to be worked.

She arranged her affairs, naming Samuel Winchester as her sole heir. She gathered resources. She fasted and she drank a bitter tisane of herbs and toadstools that, if she kept drinking it a fortnight or so longer, would kill her. No matter. She wouldn't live that long. On her last afternoon, she spent three hours under a needle, while a tattoo artist covered her skin in sigils.

Bela's research uncovered plenty of spells for switching bodies with another. She considered every single spell. Geographical closeness couldn't be a factor. She had no idea where she would be on her last night. That eliminated a large number of spells straight away. Quite a few others were permanent. Some required both parties to remain on the same plane of existence.

In the end, two spells remained. One required murdering a child of the same sex. Bela was astonished to discover that there was a line she would not cross. Not even to save herself. Dean Winchester would've been surprised as well. The thought made her smile.

She never was a little girl. Her father had stolen her childhood. The thought of robbing another girl of the chance to be just a girl... it repulsed her. She would not have been able to live with herself. Hell would have been the bloodstain she could not scrub off her hand.

The very last spell required the caster to betray a loved one. A trusted companion would become the victim of the spell. Problematic, as Bela had no loved ones. No trusted companions. She'd been very judicious about that.

The spell involved no complicated chants or rituals; however, it would only work as -- in the American parlance -- a Hail Mary pass. It could only be cast at the penultimate moment. Smash a vial of potion, symbolically shatter trust and friendship.

Of course, someone in Bela's world did fit all the requirements. Her heart clenched when she realized it, but she told herself Hell couldn't have much use for such a small, uncomplicated soul.

At one minute to midnight on the last day of her life, Bela sat on a saggy, sprung bed in a hideous, cheap room in the Erie Motel. Next to her, a blow-up doll lay deflating with a quiet sigh. Another doll lay in the second bed. One blond, one brunette. The question flitted through her head: which brother preferred which type of woman?

The scarred, old-fashioned clock flipped from 11:59 to 12:00, and a howl pierced the night. Long and deep-throated. The thrill of horror racing through her told her precisely what had voiced that cry.

Nothing moved outside. Nothing was visible, save an alley and the rear of the building next door. Slick, slimy brick; greasy, gleaming street lamp. Bela lifted the phone from her lap and set it on the bed. Dean and Sam wouldn't help her. They couldn't. She'd seen to that herself. Too late for recriminations, even self-recriminations. Much too late. Bela rose to her feet, and faced the window.

Again came the deep baying, like the hollow clang of an iron bell. Massive shapes emerged from the shadows, seemed to form out of shadows, while the gloom in the alley deepened. The curtains billowed inward and Bela hastened back as well, fingers digging in the pocket of her leather jacket. Nothing there, nothing but the lining -- and then she touched the tiny glass vial.

"Forgive me," she murmured. So many, many regrets. No time to be specific.

A flash of white fangs in the streetlight. This was her moment. Hail Mary. She hurled the vial to the floor and crushed it under the heel of her boot. As the Hellhounds rushed for their quarry, drooling and snarling, darkness swooped down and lifted her on vast, silent wings.

***

Dean got Sam’s attention by poking him with one claw.

"Dude!" Sam rubbed the back of his neck.

Dean padded up across the windshield to the roof of the car, and Sam set his book aside. He saw nothing outside the gates except the Hellhounds snoozing in the sun. All the same, it was about time for Bobby to arrive, and the cat's ears were better than Sam's.

Sam stood, brushing grass and dirt from his jeans. Bela wiped both hands quickly across her cheeks. Sam felt an unwelcome pang of compassion for her. Maybe because it was Dean's face wet with tears.

Sam hated thinking about those four months without Dean. Nothing had been good about them. Not one moment. Worse was the knowledge that nothing could ever be good again. But even as Dean's time had trickled away, they had each other. Bela had nobody. Except her cat.

She smiled up at Sam, hard and challenging. "Didn’t your mother teach you it’s impolite to stare?"

The barb would have been better directed at Dean, but Dean didn't so much as flick an ear.

"Sorry for being sorry," Sam said.

"I don’t need your pity."

"Guess not. You've got plenty of your own."

Bobby's battered Chevelle arrived, slowing at the cemetery gates, tires crunching up the gravel drive. He parked behind the Impala and came walking over. As he passed Bela, he touched the brim of his trucker cap. "Ma’am."

Bela sneered.

"Rrrree," Dean trilled, balancing on the very edge of the Impala's roof, stretching at a perilous angle like a furry gargoyle on a steel cathedral.

Bobby bent to scrutinize him. "Dean?"

"Maarrr."

"Do you understand what I’m saying?"

"Yaaaa," Dean replied, clearly annoyed.

"Hellhounds still around?"

"Yau."

"Right outside the gates," Sam added. "Three of 'em."

He grabbed the go-bag out of the trunk of Bobby's car, and Bobby grabbed a stack of battered spell books, and the four of them moved deeper into the cemetery where the graves were older. Hopefully it would look like the four of them were paying their respects to some distant ancestor, rather than performing an exorcism.

Bela went without a protest, looking bored and faintly amused, like she wondered why Sam and Bobby were even bothering.

After three hours, Sam was sweaty and exasperated, and the bridge of his nose felt tight and painful. Sunburn. Fantastic. He and Bobby had run through all the rituals they knew. They'd tried Latin, they'd tried Sumerian, they'd tried Tibetan, Native American, and Enochian; and Bela still stood in the center of a circle of ashes and cow's blood, examining her cuticles.

Bobby tossed the last grimoire into the grass.

"Wise decision." Bela gestured to where Dean, with an utterly Deanesque show of unconcern, had fallen asleep on top of a nearby tombstone, his tail over his nose. "Look at him. He's obviously much happier as a cat."

Bobby grabbed Bela by the front of her leather jacket. She looked shocked, as if no one had ever laid a hand on her like that, which Sam found difficult to believe.

"Get your hands off me!"

"I don’t care how long we have to stay here," Bobby told her. "How many rituals we have to perform, or how many spirits we have to invoke. You made a deal, and you are going to honor it."

"I’m not going to Hell. I won’t. I’ve sacrificed too much."

"You’re a fine one to talk about sacrifice, you selfish bitch."

"You don't understand. No one _ever_ understands; I was already in Hell. I shouldn't have to go back there any more than your brother."

Sam understood. He'd figured it out before Bela's deal had come due. Dean had probably figured it out, too. They'd never talked about it because there wouldn't have been any point. Bela's parents had died in a car accident when Bela was fourteen. Fourteen year-old girls didn't make deals with demons to gain money or power. Bela's parents had been monsters, plain and simple.

"Bobby," Sam said. "Let her go."

Bobby released Bela, shoving her against a black marble plinth.

Sam had been turning the problem over in his brain ever since he'd hung up the phone with Bobby. He had a solution. A crazy long-shot. But, hey. Weren't crazy long-shots the Winchester family's stock in trade?

"I've got an idea," he said. "But it's only going to work if we trust each other."

"Mau." Dean sounded unimpressed.

Bela snorted. "I stand corrected, Sam. I understood _that_ perfectly well."

"Fluffy's right," Bobby added.

"It doesn't matter anyway," said Bela. "Whatever your plan is, it's not going to work. There's no more time, and no other place I can go."

"There's one place," Bobby said.

Sam said quietly, "Bela. For once. Just let somebody help you."

She studied Sam's face for a long moment, and then something inside of her seemed to give way. Her shoulders fell. "It's a simple binding incantation. I wrote it on the inside of Spike’s collar."

***

When Dean glanced in the rear view mirror for the millionth time, Sam twisted around to look out the back window. The Hellhounds were almost lost in the distance behind the car. Dean swung the wheel, pulled over to the shoulder of Route Nine, and cut the engine.

"What are you doing?" Sam said. 

"They're not gonna stop chasing us," Dean said. "Ever."

"I know. But they can't do anything anymore." Sam's own reluctance surprised him. There had to be another solution than killing the Hellhounds. If they even could be killed.

Dean squinted at Sam. "Wait. What're we talking about here?"

"I thought you were -- oh no." Sam held up both hands. "No way, man. No."

"It's not their fault, Sam. It's they way they've been trained. Like a pit bull, or a racing greyhound. They need rehabilitation. Sundays at the park. Snausages."

"Dean.  They mauled you to death."

Dean looked away, hands tightening on the steering wheel. His profile was tight and unhappy. They sat in silence until the Hellhounds caught up. The creatures circled the car, heads hanging, tongues lolling, panting harshly. They looked hot and exhausted.

Dean murmured, "I did things, too. Things that I…"

"That was different," Sam cut him off quickly.

"Sure. They're animals. I'm a human. I've got higher reasoning, and morals. I can _decide_ to save myself, and torture somebody else instead."

"That's not what I meant," Sam said.

"What did you mean? I'm your brother, so I get special rules?"

Sam's throat tightened. _Yes_, he thought.

Dean opened the door and got out of the car. Sam followed, but the Hellhounds didn't attack Dean. One of them sniffed the rear tire on Dean's side, and whined.

Dean bent down, holding out his hands. "Hey. Come here."

The Hellhound's massive head swiveled. Its red eyes stared at Dean. Sam held his breath, afraid to speak, afraid the Hellhound would leap for Dean's throat. The other two creatures watched, tense and silent as Sam, as the first Hellhound stretched its neck and sniffed Dean.

"It's okay," Dean said. "No hard feelings."

The Hellhound licked his hand. A grin spread over Dean's face, and he leaned down to ruffle and tug the monstrous thing's ears. The Hellhound wriggled against him, stubby tail wagging ecstatically. The other two Hellhounds bounded over, bumping their bodies against Dean's legs.

"Remember how you were always bugging dad for a puppy?" Dean said.

"Yeah. A puppy." Sam cupped his hands, puppy-sized. But, it was hopeless and he knew it.

Dean whistled, slapped his thighs, and flung open the back door of the Impala. "Everybody in! Come on!"

The Hellhounds piled into the back seat.  The Impala rocked, springs groaning. Dean slammed the door and slid in behind the wheel. As he started the engine, and pulled onto Route Nine, two of the hounds stuck their heads out of the back window on Dean's side. The other one rested its chin on the front seat. Sam reached over and gingerly stroked the Hellhound between the ears. When he drew his hand away, the Hellhound butted its cold nose against his arm.

"Maybe we can train them to chase monsters," Sam said.

"Now you're talking."

"In our epic history of weird-ass ideas, adopting stray Hellhounds has got to be the weirdest."

"Your idea was way weirder, dude."

Sam still wasn’t sure if he’d made things better or worse. Bobby had seemed reluctantly pleased to acquire a pet cat. He even admitted he'd been missing Rumsfeld. And Bela… well, Bela hadn't had much choice.

"You’re the one who’s always acting like this car is alive," Sam pointed out.

"I’m not the one who had tea parties with a stuffed monkey."

"They were not tea parties, Dean. They were staff meetings. Also, I was five."

"Whatever you say, duchess."

Sam reached for the car radio, but it clicked on all by itself, scrolling through the stations until AC/DC surged out of the speakers, filling the car with the thundering roar of "Highway to Hell."

Sam grinned. At least Bela hadn't lost her sense of humor.

THE END

***


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